











































Toxicity in Themes of Control: An 
Analysis of the Anglo-Western 
Cancer Rhetoric in A Monster Calls

In Anglo-Western literature, 
most monsters are portrayed as 

conscious, tangible beings.  Whether 
one believes that werewolves, 
cyborgs, and murderous serial killers 
could be even considered human, 
or that vampires and zombies count 
as being alive, usually the monsters 
audiences encounter are seen as 
cognizant, thinking, physical beings, 
meant to match the human (or 
human-like) heroes in wit, strength, 
and will. Still, we often confront 
monsters that are not considered 
cognizant or thinking that are just 
as complex and dangerous; while 
one might not immediately consider 
a disease to be a monster, how we 
respond to disease is similar to how 
we portray cognizant monsters. We see disease as an invader of the body, and it 
evokes terror and panic; for example, it is rare to find someone in modern Anglo-
Western society who does not have some reaction to the word “cancer.” Many 
attend and host charity events and marathons fighting to find a cure, and several 
write books, create art, and film movies about how the disease affects lives. Rarely, 
though, do we think about how and why we monstrify cancer in pop culture. But 
Patrick Ness’s 2011 young adult novel, A Monster Calls, attempts to address these 
questions through its reflection of Anglo-Western cultural values of control in 
various characters; it seems that A Monster Calls is not merely a story of coping 
and grief, but also of how the Anglo-Western obsession with control and frequent 
refusal to accept complexity turns toxic, how it influences our lives, and how we can 

ABSTRACT
While infection has always haunted 
civilizations around the world, there 
are very few diseases that have had 
as much of an impact on Western 
culture as cancer has. The abundance of 
bereavement literature about characters 
with cancer begs the question; why 
cancer? This paper discusses ways 
in which cancer narratives reinforce 
Western obsession with control, through 
the lens of rhetoric and narrative 
structure. The author will specifically 
discuss how Patrick Ness’ 2011 novel, 
A Monster Calls, combats modern illness 
and cancer narratives and challenges 
themes of control threaded into Western 
culture.

Natali Cavanagh, Ball State University

1Digital Literature Review, vol. 4 (2017).     Ball State University. All Rights Reserved.
Please direct all requests for permission to photocopy or reproduce critical edition to dlr@bsu.edu.



learn to overcome it.
 Using the lens of A Monster Calls, we can learn and understand more about 
Anglo-Western culture and how it is reflected in our rhetoric of cancer. First, this 
paper will analyze the rhetoric of cancer and illness narratives outside of A Monster 
Calls and draw conclusions from this research. In the next sections, the paper will 
discuss the main monsters of the story (the cancer, the Monster, the nightmare 
vortex, and Conor as a monster), explaining their literary relationship with the story 
and how they converse within our culture’s current cancer narratives and rhetoric. 

BEREAVEMENT LITERATURE, CANCER NARRATIVES, AND THEIR 
CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE
 While it might be assumed that death is a subject too serious and dark for 
children and young adults, Giskin Day notes that within the past decade there 
has been a rise in the Western young adult (YA) book market in what is called 
“bereavement literature,” or books about death and grief (1). A Monster Calls 
falls under this category and fits the genre conventions; the novel is a harrowing 
story that follows Conor O’Malley, a thirteen-year-old boy living in modern day 
England, as he learns how to process his mother’s cancer and his own grief. The 
book opens when Conor is summoned by a humanoid-tree monster: a walking, 
talking, surprisingly witty creature that takes the form of the yew tree in Conor’s 
backyard. Still, this Monster (the character) is not the monster that Conor has 
been expecting; it is not the monster that has been haunting him for months in his 
nightmares. Even though Conor is unfazed by the Monster’s menacing qualities 
(his mystical powers, his strength, his unpredictability), the Monster states that 
he has come walking to tell Conor three stories, and, in return for those stories, 
Conor will tell him the “truth.” Ultimately, the Monster and his stories become a 
metaphor for the difficulties and complexities of Conor’s life in the real world as 
he balances his relationships, from his dying mother, to his chilly grandmother, to 
the teachers and bullies at his school. Along with the external monsters Conor is 
fighting, Conor also sees the cancer itself as a monster. And through his perception 
of his mother’s cancer, audiences can begin to understand the methods Conor uses 
to cope with his grief and why. 
 Along with A Monster Calls, popular books like John Green’s The Fault in 
Our Stars, Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper, Nicholas Sparks’s A Walk to Remember, 
and Jesse Andrews’s Me and Earl and the Dying Girl all discuss characters dying 
of cancer and how they, their families, and their friends deal with the disease. 
YA bereavement literature has taken its place in Anglo-Western society, and, 
just as any works of art would, it speaks volumes about the people that consume 

2Natali Cavanagh



it, their interpretations of it, and the culture that produces it. So why cancer? 
Cancer survival (or non-survival) stories are a prevalent and common trend in 
popular culture narratives, but why is cancer such a common antagonist in these 
contemporary narratives? Is it because it is one of the leading causes of death? 
According to the National Cancer Institute, in 2012, 8.2 million people died 
cancer-related deaths worldwide (“Cancer Statistics”). Is it because we have 
not found a successful and consistent cure? Perhaps the abundance of cancer-
related narratives is due, in part, to these reasons, but the nature of these stories 
also highlights a specific characteristic common to Western cultures: the fear of 
weakness and loss of control. 
 In Keywords for Disability Studies, Eva Feder Kittay writes, “what undermines 
the ability of disabled people to flourish is the view that being self-sufficient, self-
reliant, and self-determining is the norm and the only desirable state of persons 
in a liberal society” (54). From this perspective, independence is the epitome of 
Western culture. In her book, Extraordinary Bodies, Rosemarie Garland Thomson 
relates what liberal individualists call the “American ideal” to the disabled body, 
writing, “Such a self image parallels the national ideal in an individualist egalitarian 
democracy that each citizen is a microcosm of the nation as a whole. A well-
regulated self thus contributes to a well-regulated nation. However, these four 
principles depend upon a body that is a stable, neutral instrument of the individual 
will” (42). Our society equates self-sufficiency and control with health and power, 
and we believe that every person is responsible for contributing to the improvement 
of the community. Dependency, then, is a sign of weakness. Weakness is, then, 
vulnerability and loss of control, and it is the vulnerable who suffer most in our 
society and are at risk of destruction. 
 Unsurprisingly, these fears are translated in the way we interpret illness 
narratives, or stories (fictional and nonfictional) about people coping with disease 
in an attempt to understand their traumatic experiences. The need for human 
stories in the face of inhuman diseases is vital in the road to healing; G. Thomas 
Couser notes in his article, “Critical Conditions: Teaching Illness Narrative,” “The 
more serious an illness the more it demands to be interpreted as a life event, and 
Western medicine does not concern itself with that demand. Illness narrative is 
often a way, then, of reclaiming one’s story, of re-siting one’s illness in the context 
of one’s whole life” (286). Experiencing a disease like cancer can be traumatic for 
the patient when they feel like they are the victims of their own bodies. Anglo-
Western illness narratives, from personal survival anecdotes to fictional prose, give 
the patient power over how they are represented and portrayed. Still, these illness 
narrative characteristics (regaining power) can go too far, feeding into our desire 

3Natali Cavanagh



and obsession with control. Both the benefits and dangers of ideas of power and 
control can be seen most clearly in the “restitution and recovery” narrative structure, 
most commonly seen in cancer narratives.  
 In “The Cultural Construction of Risk Understandings through Narrative 
Illness,” Nancy Wong and Tracey King note that the dominant illness narrative of 
restitution and recovery in Anglo-Western culture emphasizes “personal agency, 
control, and survival” (Wong). In these types of narratives, the patient is in charge 
of their health and their disease. Even though the journey to recovery may be long 
and painful, the patient is optimistic, strong, and brave in their fight against their 
cancer, victorious and superior to their disease in their success. Curiously, there is 
an emphasis placed on the cancer as a war, a physical opponent separate from the 
patient’s body; in Clive Seale’s book, Media and Health, Susan Sontag notes the 
frequent use of military language to describe cancer, that cancer is “experienced 
as a ruthless, secret invasion . . . the disease itself is conceived as the enemy on 
which society wages war” and as “an evil, invincible predator” (qtd. in Seale 173). 
Through this language, the disease is seen as a tangible enemy that the patient 
must overcome to regain what is being threatened: bodily autonomy, past identity, 
independence, and selfhood. Even when the patient is failing, when it is clear that 
the patient will acquiesce to their illness, the patient is still expected to literally and 
metaphorically fight to the death, “consistent with the belief in Anglo-Western 
societies that acquiescence, fear, and denial (i.e., chaos stories) are not socially 
acceptable ways of dealing with disease” (Wong). Surrender is not an option, no 
matter what. According to restitution illness narratives, there is always something 
the patient can do. This speaks, again, to the idea in Western society that we believe 
“we can exert control over each and every experience, including death itself ” 
(Wong). So it makes sense that the narratives we choose to focus on are ones of 
struggle but, ultimately, triumph. 
 Describing cancer as a physical monster implies the power of the individual; 
the situation is not hopeless, and the thought of suffering through the disease 
becomes a little more bearable. But through the lens of monster theory, the need 
to give cancer a physical body is more reflective of Anglo-Western culture than 
one might expect. In Jeffrey Jerome Cohen’s article, “Monster Culture (Seven 
Theses),” he notes, “The monster is born only at this metaphoric crossroads, as 
an embodiment of a certain cultural movement . . . . The monstrous body is pure 
culture. A construct and a projection, the monster exists only to be read” (Cohen 
4). While cancer itself is not fictional and its existence is not based on the fears of 
society, the rhetoric we use when talking about cancer in popular culture gives the 
disease a body, thereby creating a physical monster. Our monstrous interpretation 

4Natali Cavanagh



of cancer is the cultural construct and not necessarily the cancer itself. 
 Wong and King note that we typically ascribe to cancer “feral personalities,” 
using words like “savage,” “lawless,” and “relentless” (Wong).  We can battle the 
cancer. We can fight the cancer. The cancer is an invisible opponent that we must 
destroy. And it is this desire to give cancer a body that, again, highlights our cultural 
resistance to the elements out of our control. We would like to imagine cancer 
as a physical monster because we can fight physical monsters. If we give cancer a 
face and a sword, then it is possible to imagine that by doing something (battling 
the monster) we can change our current situation. We monstrify cancer because, 
by doing so, it defines our agency and confirms our humanity (our desire to fight 
and find the will to live). Because without a body or a physical form, the disease 
becomes something that kills mindlessly. Cohen notes that a monster is “that which 
questions binary thinking and introduces a crisis” (6). If Anglo-Western culture 
tells us that we are in complete control of our bodies (that we either choose to be 
healthy or not), cancer and other diseases question that and challenge us to redefine 
the meaning of control. Perhaps we are not only afraid of dying from disease and 
losing control over our bodies because of it, but we fear the lack of reason or logic 
behind it. A disease does not care whether or not someone is a good person or if 
they deserve to have that disease. In our culture saturated with ideas of complete 
control over our lives, perhaps giving cancer a body makes cancer less monstrous 
than a formless, invisible thing that we simply cannot control. The real monster that 
we are avoiding is perhaps the idea that complete agency is a lie.  
 There is power in having control over a narrative; if we have power, then 
we have the ability to dictate our futures, reduce pain, and guarantee the safety 
of those we love. Therefore, applying these thought processes in situations of dire 
hopelessness can give strength. Still, this ableist belief in self-sufficiency and our 
ability to exert power over anything can be dangerous, causing more harm than 
good to our psyches. The way this belief turns toxic will be explored in this paper 
through the themes and characters of A Monster Calls. A Monster Calls highlights 
the problems associated with modern cancer narratives and the consequences 
of our obsession with control: a refusal to accept complexity, vulnerability, and 
powerlessness as natural and normal parts to being human. 

THE CANCER AS A MONSTER
 One of the central questions of A Monster Calls is, “Who is the real monster 
of the story?” There are four perceived or potential antagonists of the story, and the 
uncertainty of their roles emphasizes a primary theme of the book. These perceived 
antagonists — the Monster (the character), the nightmare vortex (the monster 

5Natali Cavanagh



from Conor’s dreams), Conor himself, and the cancer — create the complexity and 
confusion that Conor needs to acknowledge and understand in order to begin to 
heal.  
 The cancer (and the rhetoric surrounding the cancer) functions as a monster 
in the story in how Conor perceives it as an enemy, waging war on his mother’s 
body. Again, although Cohen’s research identifies mainly fictional monsters, the 
way that Conor interprets his mother’s cancer is not unlike how the other monsters 
of the story function; the cancer is a representation of Conor’s powerlessness to 
the natural forces of the world (“the monster signifies something other than itself ” 
[Cohen 4]), it forces Conor to question his previous definitions and perceptions of 
the world (“they demand a radical rethinking of boundary and normality” [Cohen 
6]), and it calls Conor to address his own fears and desires (“we distrust and loathe 
the monster at the same time we envy its freedom, and perhaps its sublime despair” 
[Cohen 17]). Similar to the functioning of cancer rhetoric on a larger scale in 
Anglo-Western cultures, Conor also perceives the cancer as something that he is 
physically fighting and waging war against. Toward the beginning of the book, 
Conor’s grandmother attempts to discuss his living situation and implies that he 
will live with her after his mother dies. He says, “I’m never going to live with you,” 
to which his grandmother replies, “I’m sorry, but you are. And I know she’s trying 
to protect you, but I think it’s vitally important for you to know that when this is 
all over, you’ve got a home”: “‘When all of this is over,’ Conor said, with fury in 
his voice, ‘you’ll leave and we’ll be fine’” (Ness 43). Conor’s belief in his mother’s 
recovery is persistent throughout almost the entire novel. When his mother tells 
him that the next treatment will work or that a new medication is available, he 
believes that her health is improving. They are doing everything they can to “fight” 
the cancer, and the cancer must not win. While the cancer is not a traditional 
monster, Conor sees it as the main antagonist he is battling. 
 Still, the underlying conflict that runs through Conor’s actions is the 
belief that he deserves to be punished. What he truly desires is his mother’s 
death and therefore the end of her drawn out suffering. But he believes that this 
desire is wrong and is then laden with guilt. Because of this desire, he wants to 
be reprimanded for his transgressions; he has done wrong because he wants his 
mother to succumb to her cancer. He wants the “enemy” to win, and how could a 
hero ever want the villain to win? This is translated most outwardly in the way that 
he interacts with his peers and teachers, enticing responses from bullies and almost 
encouraging his teachers to punish him. 
 In general, it is a natural instinct to want to comfort someone who is grieving 
or suffering, and the adults in Conor’s life perceive his situation to be distressing 

6Natali Cavanagh



and absolutely devastating. When someone is grappling with the illness of a loved 
one, one would want to do anything they could to help that person, and the way 
that Conor’s teachers and peers do this is by giving him “space.” When he does 
not want to speak in class, teachers politely glance over him and ignore his lack of 
participation. They let him pass on assignments without punishment and go out of 
their way to single him out and show their support and kindness. His peers look 
at him differently, treating him “like he was the one who was ill,” skirting around 
him, afraid to approach or hurt him (Ness 69, emphasis original). These actions are 
well intentioned and are not meant to be tactless, yet these are the actions that hurt 
Conor the most and the ones that haunt him. 
 When Conor’s teacher, Miss Kwan, pardons him from a school fight, Ness 
writes, “And for a moment, Conor was entirely alone. He knew right then he 
could probably stay out there all day and no one would punish him for it. Which 
somehow made him feel even worse” (Ness 73).  In the same scene with Miss 
Kwan, Ness writes, “Conor said nothing, and the silence took on a particular 
quality, one he was familiar with . . . . He knew what was coming. He knew and 
he hated it . . . . He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see the care there, couldn’t bear to 
hear it in her voice. (Because he didn’t deserve it.)” (Ness 72-73, emphasis original). 
What Conor wants is for the world to be simple. He wants his actions to be placed 
in tidy categories because it gives him a sense of control in the world, but perhaps 
also because it gives him a better sense of understanding in a world that refuses 
to make sense to him. Why do good people die pointless deaths? Why do well-
intentioned people make bad decisions? If Conor is punished for his perceived 
transgressions (desiring his mother’s death) in the real world, then it reassures him 
that justice exists, and, if it exists for him, perhaps it exists for his mother. What 
Conor fears is that his “bad” actions will go unpunished and that he, a villain, will 
walk throughout the world unharmed. While Conor seems to outwardly insist that 
the real monster is the cancer, the audience begins to see that the monster Conor is 
grappling with is himself. Conor believes that the cancer is a monster but that he is 
the worse monster. 
 Perhaps this is what also drives his relationship with Harry, the blonde-
haired, blue-eyed, charming, but vicious, schoolyard bully. Conor relishes the fights 
goaded on by Harry, which are not so much fights as they are Conor permitting 
Harry to hit him. It is as if Harry somehow understands that what Conor wants 
is to be seen, not necessarily in a good or bad way, but truly seen for what he is. 
Conor does not think the other peers and teachers see who he is on the inside (a 
monster), essentially invisible to the outside world. But Harry continues to see 
Conor, and it is only Harry that understands what Conor wants. At the climax of 

7Natali Cavanagh



their relationship, and when Harry finally understands what will hurt Conor most, 
he states, “‘Here is the hardest hit of all, O’Malley,’ . . . ‘Here is the very worse thing 
I can do to you . . . .Good-bye, O’Malley,’ Harry said, looking into Conor’s eyes. 
‘I no longer see you.’” (Ness 144-145). What drives Conor is guilt, but what hurts 
Conor is injustice. What hurts him is becoming invisible, his feelings, thoughts, 
and actions becoming irrelevant to everyone around him. After Harry leaves Conor, 
the Monster appears, stating, “It was not that he was actually invisible . . . . It was 
that people had become used to not seeing him . . . . And if no one really sees you . . . are 
you really there at all?” (Ness 146, emphasis original). What Conor wants is for 
his actions to have consequences; if he perceives his “evil” thoughts to be harmful, 
then maybe, if he is punished, justice will be restored. Conor mistakenly believes 
that he is responsible for his mother’s suffering (because he wishes for her death, 
because he does not believe in her recovery) and that his thoughts and beliefs have 
more power than they actually do (“I didn’t mean to let her go! And now it’s for 
real! Now she’s going to die and it’s my fault!” [Ness 190]). Conor cannot control 
his mother’s cancer, but his belief that he actually can control the cancer and her 
suffering through his thoughts and actions is what gives him the illusion of power. 
Conor fears the meaninglessness of his actions because it forces him to recognize 
that his power and control are, in fact, illusions; there is nothing he can do to help 
his mother. 
 This deep repression of fear causes Conor to act rashly and violently toward 
his friends and family, in the verbal abuse of his best friend (Ness 25-26), the 
almost self-inflicted punishments from Harry (Ness 18-22), and the physical 
destruction of his grandmother’s living room (Ness 110-114) and the school 
cafeteria (Ness 146-152). An understandable desire to help his mother and control 
her disease turns into obsessive and harmful thoughts and actions. Ultimately, 
this belief (that her suffering is his fault) prevents him from grieving properly, 
causing psychological and emotional stress. So while the cancer is not a thinking, 
tangible monster that fights the protagonist, the cancer forces Conor to analyze his 
perceptions of right and wrong and the extent of his control over his situations. This 
conflict of interest thus rises from Conor’s subconscious in the forms of tangible 
monsters.  

THE MONSTER (THE CHARACTER) AS A REPRESENTATION OF 
COMPLEXITY AND POWERLESSNESS
 One of these monsters is the Monster (the character); he is the main 
“monster” that Conor directly interacts with and the one that the audience sees 
most in the story. It is through the Monster and his stories that Conor begins to 

8Natali Cavanagh



understand that the reason he feels so vulnerable and powerless is because of the 
complexity and ambiguity of his emotions; Cohen mentions in his research that 
monsters resist easy categorization, but through Ness’s description and portrayal 
of the Monster, it seems that the Monster and the stories he tells Conor represent 
complexity itself. 
 In the novel, Conor struggles to define who the Monster is and what his 
purpose in Conor’s life is; the Monster insists that Conor is the one who called 
for him and that Conor is the one who wants his help, but it is not clear how the 
Monster is supposed to be helping him. The Monster is not necessarily evil because 
he does not encourage Conor’s self-destruction; however, he threatens Conor’s 
demise by forcing him to recognize his vulnerability. He encourages Conor to tear 
apart his grandmother’s living room and violently attack Harry as destructive ways 
to express his pain, but he also encourages Conor to find peace within the world 
and rehabilitate. This ambiguity can be seen through the Monster’s physical traits 
as well; the Monster describes himself as wild and untamable (“I am this wild earth” 
and “I am everything untamed and untamable!” [Ness 34]).  Interestingly, Wong 
and King note in their research that cancer tends to be described with words like 
“insidious,” “mysterious,” “lawless,” and “savage” (Wong). The Monster has ancient 
magic, the power to destroy buildings, and the power to move across time and 
space; he is not bound to the logic and reality of the world. But while the Monster 
seems chaotic and destructive, he also physically represents hope and recovery. In 
the story, Conor’s mother begins a new drug therapy in a final attempt toward 
improvement; one of the ingredients in the drug is yew bark (from the same type of 
tree that the Monster has chosen as a body). As Conor and the audience discover 
the Monster’s character throughout the book, it becomes harder to classify him as 
an actual monster, or at least what Conor perceives monsters are supposed to be 
(evil, villainous, antagonistic) when he also symbolizes hope in Conor’s, and his 
mother’s, rehabilitation. 
 Even though the Monster himself is a complex beast, it is his stories that 
force Conor to acknowledge ambiguity. The Monster is aware that his stories and 
his motives bring pain and alleviation together. He gives Conor stories that do not 
make sense to Conor; while each of the three stories he tells are set in different 
times and places, they all emphasize complexity within morality. The characters 
of the Monster’s stories do not fit into clear categories (hero, villain, victim, etc.). 
For example, in the first, a right-thinking prince performs evil actions with good 
intentions, and the evil witch is not necessarily the enemy. In the second, a good-
hearted priest creates destruction through unintended selfishness, and the Monster 
portrays a purposely selfish, bitter apothecary as the victim. In the third, the 

9Natali Cavanagh



line between reality and fantasy blurs when the Monster makes Conor the main 
character and Harry the villain, making the actions performed by Conor in the 
story become real. When Conor confronts the Monster about the ambiguity of 
these stories, he asks, “I don’t understand. Who’s the good guy here?” (Ness 63). 
The Monster then replies, “There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad 
one. Most people are somewhere in between” (Ness 64). Conor wants a moral to the 
Monster’s stories and the knowledge that goodness triumphs over evil in the end. 
Still, the Monster makes a point that the purpose of his stories is not meant to be 
clear; he states, “You think I tell you stories to teach you lessons? . . . You think I have 
come walking out of time and earth itself to teach you a lesson in niceness?” (Ness 63, 
emphasis original). The Monster is not inherently good or evil, just as his stories, 
motives, and actions are not clear or straightforward. What makes this monster 
particularly compelling is that he specifically symbolizes complexity; he does not 
simply represent complexity in a certain societal norm or cultural trend, but he 
embodies the nature and fear of complexity itself. 
 What Conor fears is the complexity and the indefinable sources of his 
problems; he does not understand how he can want his mother to survive and so 
desperately wish for the end of her suffering at the same time. What the Monster 
forces him to confront is the idea that his mother’s cancer, his thoughts, and his 
entire world cannot be clearly defined and are, therefore, uncontrollable. Just as 
the Monster and his stories are not things Conor can control, his life and his 
mind cannot be controlled either. Through the Monster’s character, Conor and the 
audience are invited to think critically about how we define villains and heroes, 
and how much influence we actually have over those definitions (and consequently 
ourselves). Most importantly, though, the Monster and his stories prepare Conor 
for the ultimate test of his strength: confronting his own fears of becoming a 
monster.  

THE NIGHTMARE VORTEX AND CONOR AS MONSTER
 The monster that Conor must face in order to overcome his fears (the 
nightmare vortex) appears finally at the end of the novel, after the Monster has told 
the three tales. At the climax of the story, the Monster brings Conor to the source 
of his nightmare; in the scene, a swirling, black, powerful vacuum begins to pull 
Conor’s mother off a cliff, threatening to eat her alive. The audience assumes that 
this vortex is the monster that Conor refers to at the beginning of the story, and 
the connection to his mother’s cancer is clear; Ness writes, “cloud and ash and dark 
flames, but with real muscle, real strength, real red eyes that glared back at him and 
flashing teeth that would eat his mother alive” (Ness 179). The impossibly powerful 

10Natali Cavanagh



monster that is eating his mother away in real life is here to eat her in his dreams, 
and this monster seems to be a personification of the cancer. Still, as the nightmare 
scene continues, the audience sees that Conor is more afraid of himself than the 
vortex around him. As he catches his mother moments before she falls, he finds 
her growing heavier and heavier, until he cannot bear the weight of her and lets 
her plummet to her death. What Conor cannot admit, cannot even utter, is that he 
wanted her to fall because she was too heavy to carry by himself.  This truth is what 
Conor is ultimately afraid of: that he himself is the monster because he is the one 
that causes her death. 
 This moment is the climax of the story, but it is also an essential coming-
of-age point for Conor. As the nightmare vortex begins to consume Conor, the 
Monster says, “You must tell the truth or you will never leave this nightmare . . . 
.You will be trapped here alone for the rest of your life” (Ness 185). In both a literal 
and metaphorical sense, this monster (the belief that Conor is the cause of his 
mother’s suffering) will kill Conor. The ugliness of the truth, represented through 
the way the “nightmare’s tendrils were binding him now,” will suffocate him; the 
longer he stays silent, the farther he pushes his words down his throat (Ness 186). 
Conor’s grief and guilt overwhelm him, so much that they make him incapable of 
processing life normally (“Conor’s grief was a physical thing, gripping him like a 
clamp, clenching him tight as a muscle” [Ness 190]). 
 Interestingly, though, the Monster (the character) says specifically that 
Conor must say the truth in order to be able to move on. What destroys Conor 
even more than his guilt is a lack of expression of that guilt and an inability to say 
what makes him vulnerable and afraid. The words themselves have more power 
than anything else; the Monster notes, “You were willing to die rather than speak 
[the truth]” (Ness 192). Conor believes that he has control over his emotions and 
that he has the ability to make his complex situations simple. He is evil because 
he desires his mother’s death. So if he denies this desire and instead tells himself 
to believe in a cure for her cancer, then he can find redemption. These are, then, 
attempts to try and control his feelings through self-inflicted punishment, anger, 
physical violence, and denial of his emotions. He believes he has the power to 
control how he feels about his mother’s illness, and so his inability to control his 
complex and ambiguous emotions makes him a monster. 
 But as the Monster and the nightmare vortex show Conor, we do not 
have the ability to pick and choose what we control. Conor does not overcome 
the nightmare vortex by changing his thought process, but by admitting a truth 
that he does not want to speak; he must admit that he does not have complete 
control over how he thinks and feels and that he does not have control over his 

11Natali Cavanagh



mother’s cancer. There is no concrete reason why Conor’s mother has cancer, 
and Conor has no physical way to save her. Believing that he has control and 
that there is something he can do is what nearly destroys him. In the end, the 
only way Conor can overcome his grief and his guilt is by physically speaking 
the truth and acknowledging his vulnerability and powerlessness to the Monster 
and, consequently, to himself. The complexities of Conor’s situation will always 
remain complex, and he may not understand why exactly he feels certain ways. But 
Conor’s ambiguity and lack of control do not make him inherently evil, nor do they 
make him inherently good. Our inability to control everything does not make us 
monsters, but is, instead, something that makes us human. 

CONCLUSION
 As a story of grief and coping, A Monster Calls seems to be a novel about 
ways we can understand the death and suffering of those closest to us. But, as a 
story that also participates in a larger conversation involving how Anglo-Western 
cultures perceive cancer, illness, and disease, it is also a story about our inevitable 
powerlessness to the forces beyond us. We cannot always anticipate and prevent 
diseases like cancer, and we cannot always save the people that deserve saving. We 
cannot always control the ambiguity and complexity in our lives. We do have a 
choice in whether or not we let that fear consume us. The monstrous antagonist of 
A Monster Calls, then, is not even the nightmare vortex or the cancer itself, but the 
dangerous illusion of control that we have infused in Anglo-Western culture and 
cancer restoration narratives. What Conor’s story warns us about is the way that 
persistence and relentlessness can turn toxic, resisting that which makes us human. 

12Natali Cavanagh



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statistics. Accessed 14 Mar. 2016.

Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” Monster Theory: 
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Couser, G. Thomas. “Critical Conditions: Teaching Illness Narrative.” Teaching 
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Day, Giskin. “Good grief: bereavement literature for young adults and A Monster 
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Feder Kittay, Eva. “Dependency.” Keywords for Disability Studies, edited by Rachel 
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Ness, Patrick, et al. A Monster Calls. Somerville, MA, Candlewick Press, 2011.

Seale, Clive. Media & Health. SAGE Publications, 2002. 

Thomson, Rosemarie Garland. Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability 
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13Natali Cavanagh

http:// www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/understanding/   statistics.
http:// www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/understanding/   statistics.

